Bilibid stood at the corner of Azcarraga Street and Quezon Boulevard, a familiar intersection to Barton. He had clipped by it often in those early weeks, tanned and khaki clad, on his way to one of the area’s many shopping destinations or lively nightspots. Now, under the watchful eye of the Bilibid guards, he could only gaze beyond the prison gates and recall his early infatuation with the city.
Manila’s narrow streets, mix of architecture, and overlays of culture from foreign dominions had mesmerized him. Seventeenth-century Spanish-baroque buildings stood next to native huts of bamboo, nipa palm leaves, or grass, and they, next to shuttered stucco buildings with balustrades. There had been fresh fruit stands everywhere, piled high with pineapples, sweet mangoes, and neat lines of amber-streaked papayas, so fresh the stems were still damp from the picking. Tart calamanci limes nestled beside his favorite: the small native bukos. Barton would buy all he could hold of the succulent baby coconuts with their soft, sweet insides, just like the vanilla pudding Nelly, his family’s cook, had made for him as a child.
Women with crosses around their necks had walked in twos and threes balancing goods in woven baskets on their heads. Barton had darted between automobiles that crept among pedestrians and calesas, the ubiquitous Filipino horse-drawn carts. The locals, even the children, had always met his gaze, smiling and nodding as they passed.
The earth at the intersection of Azcarraga and Quezon was still brown as tamarind, but the mingling aromas of tropical foliage and mashed peppers simmering in vinegar were gone. Cars were burned and turned on their sides, and calesa carts were smashed alongside bloating animal carcasses. Air attacks had left the streets pitted and impassable, and during the nighttime blackouts, looters finished the destruction the Japanese had started. Sandbags barricaded shops and buildings, and glass from shattered windows glittered on the sidewalk.
The Yangco Market, once a bustling bazaar of native products, stood cratered and vacant across the street. Barton had shopped for Christmas presents for his mother in its small, colorful booths. He had never mailed the bright hats, slippers, and linens he’d bought, nor even his first letters home. Were the packages still perched proudly on his dresser at Manila’s Army and Navy Club—so close to where he stood now? Were the letters to his parents in New Jersey and to Benny, Bill, and Eve, the enchanting girl he’d met at Pearl Harbor, still sitting atop them?
When the sorry band of prisoners approached Bilibid’s forbidding iron gates, sympathetic Filipinos along the route had been downcast, some tearful. A few daring young boys flashed their signature V signs before the gates slammed and locked behind the last prisoner. The Japanese had failed to calculate the degree of loyalty the Filipinos felt for the Americans, who had set up health clinics and new schools and established a representative government. The United States had also promised the Philippines its complete independence by 1946.
By contrast, the Japanese viewed Filipinos as impure Malayan inferiors and treated them brutally. In the short months since their occupation, the Japanese military had bullied and slaughtered thousands of citizens, ignoring the lessons of the revered ancient Chinese samurai Sun Tsu. In his treatise The Art of War, Sun Tsu instructed samurai warriors to “treat . . . captives well and care for them . . . By these means [the samurai] make their governments invincible.” Sun Tsu might have predicted the result of Japanese cruelty toward the Filipinos: a heightened allegiance toward the Americans and mistrust of Japan’s propagandist assurance of a united, prosperous Asia. Thus far, the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere the Japanese had touted equaled only barbaric subordination, bloodshed, and starvation.
When Barton wasn’t daydreaming about his peacetime life, he would join his expanding group of friends, usually huddled in the cool shadow of the prison’s twelve-foot-high perimeter wall. In the evenings, from their crumbling cells, they would sit together and listen to the bombing and battering of the besieged Bataan Peninsula. And they continued to strain their ears for evidence of approaching reinforcements. Just one week earlier, in a surge of optimism, they had gathered for Easter worship and prayed that Bataan’s defenders would hold on until the reinforcements could reach them.
They were sure that they’d heard the distinct wrrrhh of an American plane versus the buzzzz of the Japanese Zero airplane engine the evening before. At such times they’d laugh, maybe slap one another’s backs, and then listen some more. Their fervent prayer on Easter Sunday had been to a common nondenominational God that surely loved them and would show His mercy. Defiant church bells stung the air in the streets beyond, seeming to confirm that their solemn entreaties would soon be answered.
So when the news of Bataan’s surrender hit Bilibid four days later, it shook the prisoners as hard as the earthquake that hit Manila that same morning. Many despaired that they’d been betrayed twice: first by MacArthur and then by God.
WITHIN DAYS OF THAT bitter news, the prisoners were ordered to prepare for another move, this time to a place called Cabanatuan, sixty kilometers (thirty-seven miles) north of Manila. Their misanthropic guards once again shoved the prisoners in line for another march past queues of long-faced Manilans.
The guards were hot, tired, and full of loathing for their charges, a sentiment that had only intensified during the long siege of Bataan. The best Japanese soldiers were reserved to fight the war; those put in charge of prisoners were either disgruntled conscripts or minimally trained third-tier recruits who were all too ready to turn their wrath on the prisoners.
Under the Bushido code—the ancient samurai code of conduct taught to every Japanese boy from an early age—surrender was among the most dishonorable of acts. For a soldier to allow himself to be taken alive or, worse, to surrender, was unthinkable; either brought permanent shame to the individual, his family, and his country. In fact, Japan had declined to ratify the 1929 Geneva Convention because of its opposition to the clause condoning the notification of relatives upon a soldier’s surrender. This would not only bring permanent shame upon the soldier, but disgrace to his family as well. Perhaps Ashihei Hino, the Japanese wartime reporter, best described his country’s view on this subject in his account of the surrendered men on Bataan: “I feel like I am watching filthy water running from the sewage of a nation . . . which has lost its pride of race.”
Thus, by their way of thinking, all prisoners of war deserved only disgrace and hardship. The prisoners were well aware of their captors’ disposition as they set out for Cabanatuan. Despite sore temptation, they dared not scavenge discarded American rations scattered among the war debris littering the roadside.
Barton had quickly learned to avoid all but necessary eye contact with his captors. Looking down was the best way to fend off fear—and to hide it. On these brutal marches, designed to weaken, demean, and humiliate, he would lock his eyes on the footsteps in front of him and follow their pattern hypnotically. And like so many of the prisoners, he would fixate on memories of home: of Lilac Hedges, of family, of the Jersey Shore and hours of diving into Atlantic waves and happy picnicking afterward.
Conjuring these images of life when it was whole and full of possibilities renewed his strength. There were the fragrant lilacs, cicada orchestras, postcard images of rolling farmland, summer orchards weighted with ripening fruit, and roadside stands piled high with tomatoes and sweet corn. And there were the family images, too: of Benny, Bill, his little sister, Rosemary, and, of course, his parents. But he lingered most on his mother, though this also brought stabs of pain.
His mother had come to represent everything he had wanted to escape, and only now, in his first experience of deprivation, could he see how much his efforts to distance himself from her had hurt her. Yet these regrets also impelled Barton. He wanted desperately to make amends; for her to know that he loved and appreciated her. He also wanted to make her proud, which he was sure he had long failed to do. If he were lucky enough to see her again, he would run to her, not away from her, and show her the gratitude and affection she had so persi
stently been denied.
2
BENNY
IN LATE NOVEMBER 1941, barely two weeks after Barton sailed for Manila, Benny and the crew of the USS Enterprise received abrupt orders from their commanding officer. Admiral William “Bull” Halsey’s curt directive to sortie from Pearl Harbor for an undisclosed location “as soon as possible” was unprecedented. Benny could not recall a single instance in the past eleven years when shore leave had been cut without notice.
Even more curious were the twelve F4F Wildcat fighter planes being towed to Enterprise’s F-9 berth. The propeller-driven aircraft were hoisted onto the flight deck, after which a dozen marine pilots boarded with hastily packed luggage and very recent orders of their own. Why were these planes being loaded in addition to Enterprise’s own 140 dive bombers, fighters, and torpedo planes?
There was good reason for apprehension. Negotiations between Japan’s ambassadors and officials in Washington had dragged on fruitlessly for months and tensions were rising fast. Prime Minister Tojo had ticked off a long list of demands—including that Japan be given a free hand in its occupation of China and Indochina and that the United States cut diplomatic ties with Chiang Kai-shek, China’s leader-in-exile. In addition, Japan had demanded President Roosevelt reverse his recent order freezing Japanese assets and restore the flow of American gasoline to its fuel-starved ports, not to mention halt the buildup of American forces in the South Pacific. As near as Benny could tell, little had been offered US negotiators in exchange.
Given the worsening standoff with Japan, Admiral Halsey’s order unleashed a torrent of questions from the air and gunnery crews. But duty-bound Benny was not one to second-guess Halsey or any other naval superior. They needed to do as instructed and fast, he told them. Benny had quite a few things of his own to do before departure. No telling how long they would be at sea, and he had to get a letter off to his mother. He knew she would be anxious about his visit with Barton before he pushed off for Manila, and there was much to tell.
November 27, 1941
USS Enterprise
Dear Mother,
Barton has come and gone—this is the first chance I’ve had to write you about it and I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to write again. I was on the dock to meet him as he came in. He looked healthy, he was smiling, and happy to be in that uniform!
I had the ship’s station wagon for the day and took him sightseeing. Together with two friends of mine, we made a party of it. First we took him to the Pali overlook, then to the other side of the island for a cocktail party at the home of Webley Edwards, the local radio announcer for Hawaii Calls. The daughter of the family took Bart for a swim at the Outrigger and Canoe Club at Waikiki beach and he enjoyed himself hugely.
The Moanna [sic] Hotel is just next door and I took him over there for a drink. I couldn’t raise a bit of sympathy from Bart about the loneliness in my life. He laughed and said that crocodile tears were streaming down his face!
Later I called up a young lady friend, Eve, and we went out to a local night spot, the South Seas, saw the Hula shows and they danced and danced right up until it was time for Bart’s ship to leave. But when we took him back to his ship we waited and waited and nothing happened. It seemed that things had worsened in the Pacific and his route had to be rearranged. I doubt now they called at Shanghai or Hong Kong, which is too bad.
We finally left the dock around 3 a.m. after Eve had collected about 20 flower leis that Barton and the boys threw her from the ship. She liked Bart a lot, and went down to the dock again the next day. She works at an office downtown and saw that his ship was still there and got time off to go see him again. Bart seems to have all the ladies eating out of his palms. He had 3 of them running circles around him here. All the way from 18 to 40.
Mother, I gave him the best advice I could. He isn’t in the best spot in the world right now, but he is young and has his whole life before him—two years or so there should be a great experience, providing he keeps a grip on himself. Bill gave him the best advice of all—to do a good job and guard his health and his money. If he does that he will be o.k.
He should be there by now, and I really believe that he will be fairly safe. He’ll be on shore duty, from the gist of his orders. That is far better and safer if anything breaks in the Pacific. The Japs won’t take the Philippines easily, even if they send an invading force. Remember Mother, Manila is protected by the guns of Corregidor, plus the Army’s Air Force, plus the Asiatic Fleet, plus a half million men in the Filipino army, plus our own forces. They will find the Filipino army trained by General MacArthur—a pretty crack outfit and a tough one.
And remember, meanwhile, while they are doing that, we aren’t here in Pearl for nothing. Anyway, the next few weeks will tell the story. They may back down completely if we stand firm, in spite of the terrible loss of face they would sustain. The Japanese man in the street is sick of war. They’ve had severe restrictions now for years, and they don’t like it. Of course the Big Boys may decide on national hari kari [sic] and take the big chance. There’s always that angle with those people.
I told Bart what it would be like out there in paradise and not to throw pesos around just because there are two of them for a dollar. I advised him to get up with a couple of the boys and get a house in Cavite. Then they could hire a cook and a house boy so they wouldn’t have to worry about food.
I agree with what you said about the rest being up to Bart. I warned him to guard his values and judge those around him carefully.
Your loving son,
Benny
P.S. I also told him to remember that it’s only 8 or 9 days by Pan Am Clipper to New York—and to write you often.
Benny had been the first of the three brothers to leave Lilac Hedges for Annapolis. That was in 1926, and he was one of the lucky 1930 graduates to receive an officer’s commission. The Naval Academy was not immune to the economic reversals of the Depression, and peacetime commissions for rising ensigns were no longer automatic. He departed for Norfolk, Virginia, that June for duty on the aircraft carrier USS Lexington.
When the schedule of orders was posted at graduation, Benny had been disappointed to draw an aircraft carrier. In most navy circles, the battleship was the peerless ruler of the seas. The then-prevailing view was that a carrier’s best use was to support battleships by scouting, range finding, and providing defensive air cover. Still, to Benny, a shipboard gunnery assignment was a dream come true.
The joke at Annapolis was that salt water, not blood, coursed through his veins, and there was more than a little truth to that. Benny could predict a change in weather long before it was announced on a barometer and seemed to thrive on a mixed aroma of salt air, gun grease, and a naval officer’s mainstay of strong, scalded coffee. He was, as the saying goes, a real sea dog.
After a following stint at the navy’s ordnance testing lab in Washington, DC, Benny was noted in his performance review as “cheerful, enthusiastic, cooperative, and honest” and recommended for promotion. It was a happy time for him and his new bride, Jeannette, whom he married in 1933. In 1934 they welcomed a baby girl, Jeanne Marie. But Benny’s promotion came with new orders that uprooted the young family and sent them across the country, first to Bremerton in Washington State and then to the naval port at San Diego. The moves with a small child took an increasing toll on Jeannette, who had not wanted to leave the heady social swirl of Washington, DC in the first place. Benny’s lengthening sea deployments strained the marriage further.
In 1940 the entire Pacific Fleet, including his new ship, USS Enterprise, was transferred to the US naval base in Hawaii. The move was intended to curb Japan’s expansionist zeal, but it only infuriated Japanese leaders. Mutual mistrust had only intensified since. Worse for Benny, Jeannette announced that she and Jeanne Marie, now in kindergarten, would not pull up stakes again; they were going to stay put in San Diego with her mother. It was the first overt sign that the marriage was in trouble. Reluctantly, in May 1940, Benny
shipped off to Pearl Harbor alone.
From Pearl, Enterprise’s primary role was to patrol the vast seas between Hawaii and California. The two other carriers available to relieve her, Saratoga and Lexington, were older and frequently in drydock for repairs. Enterprise filled the gap time and again. Perhaps it was just as well that lonely Benny and Enterprise had been on nearly continuous deployment since moving to Hawaii. At sea, his fellow crew had become an increasingly important source of ready companionship.
Since Annapolis, Benny had learned a great deal about gunnery and fleet practices and his views had evolved considerably. By 1940, he was part of a growing contingent of officers that saw carriers as the navy’s primary offensive weapon, even though only a handful of them were in operation. These powerful and self-sufficient floating airports with their multiple air squadrons had many times the offensive reach of battleships. That view, however, had yet to be adopted by top brass.
AS ENTERPRISE EXITED PEARL Harbor Channel on November 28, 1941, and hove into the open sea, Benny was at the rail in Sky Control, his command station, scanning the water’s surface through his ever-present field glasses. Rising not quite six feet from the steel deck, his eyes were deeply creased for a man of thirty-three, and he was as stout as navy regulations would allow. But his visual acuity of 20/15 was better than perfect, and he had yet to miss an errant ripple on patrol. “His eyes burn brightly, scorching the dainty wings of fair moths that fly his way,” quipped the 1930 Naval Academy yearbook, Lucky Bag, beneath his photograph.
The Jersey Brothers Page 3